


The Pitfalls of Arson

by Rrismo



Series: Catharsis [2]
Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Arson, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Daddy Issues, Lalo and Nacho are perfectly sexually compatible in all the worst and best ways, Light BDSM, M/M, Nacho's still bad at coping, Praise Kink, Slow Dancing, Spanking, bottom!Lalo, but bad BDSM saves the day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23637604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrismo/pseuds/Rrismo
Summary: When Nacho opens his tired eyes, he notices that they are level with Lalo’s mouth. He can see the bits of scab over the almost healed split lip, and the way it stretches when the corners of Lalo’s mouth curl into a smile.“Have you ever thought about killing me?”, Lalo almost whispers.
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Series: Catharsis [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701643
Comments: 15
Kudos: 60





	The Pitfalls of Arson

Rusty, narrow rails lead up the abandoned industrial area, overgrown by scrub and dry, yellow grass. The blades are swaying in the breeze, underneath a vast, cloudless evening sky. The gigantic dark shape of an out of place dinosaur statue watches over the entire area, some sort of sauropod approximation from the 50’s, its long neck craned upward as if it is catching the scent of trouble. The asphalt square it calls home is framed by derelict box-shaped buildings and hasn’t seen a single living soul in years. That is, until today.

Today, the dinosaur has company. In the middle of the square stands an old Chevrolet van, its dusty red paint already peeling off in some places. Next to it is a man, and next to the man, there’s a baseball bat made of stainless steel and a can of gasoline.

The van was once the property of one Manuel Varga, who came into its possession not by his own volition, but because the customer who brought the car in never returned to pick it up again. Probably because it had been cheaper than having a scrap press take care of it.

The man glowering at the car is Nacho, and he remembers being in his early twenties and begging his father to let him have the van for three days straight. Nacho used to think it was pretty rad, even though it had already been old and run down back then. It looks even worse now.

One of his dealers had been heading into risky business. Nacho had given him his old van, and he’d said: “It’s no big deal. If anyone spots you, you get back here and we’ll just get rid of the car.”

And that’s why Nacho is here, right now, picks up the baseball bat and taps it against his leg while he regards the old Chevy with a scowl. He hasn’t slept well. He was kept up all night by - and he tries to suppress the thought, tries to bottle it up in his head, but he still remembers clear as day the night before, when he came back home, walked into his bedroom just to be swiftly kicked into the back of his knee and tumble to the ground, a heavy hand on his shoulder and the cold muzzle of a gun to his head.

He found himself kneeling in front of his own bed, two men behind him, Victor and Tyrus no doubt, and one man in front of him, sitting on his bed, hands folded in his lap. It was almost completely dark in the room, but still bright enough to make out Gustavo Fring looking down upon Nacho with all the cold fury of an enraged deity. Since the little vandalism trip, Nacho had known that this day would come, where Gus would find him when he least expected it and cap him in the head, but not before promising he’d do the same to his father.

“I take it you know why I am here”, Fring said, voice steely.

Nacho nodded. “I’ve been trying to call you all week”, he said.  _ Not my damn fault you’re too important to pick up the goddamn phone _ , he kept to himself. There was something stirring within him, probably panic, and it made him feel almost dizzy. “I had no idea he was going to do this. I didn’t want this. He was testing me.”

“Hm”, Fring made and his dark silhouette gave a nod.

At that, Nacho felt himself being violently pulled to his feet by the collar of his shirt. Fring also got up from the bed and took a pensive step to the side, then another one, a slow stroll through Nacho’s bedroom that took him in a wide circle around Nacho.

“If it was indeed a test, then I am sure you passed with flying colors”, Fring said, and even though his face was hidden by the shadows, Nacho could feel the piercing, knowing eyes upon him. “Outstanding work, pretending you want to damage my personal property.” Nacho turned to face him, and Fring took a step forward, making Nacho back away in turn. “You know what I think? I think you are lying.” With every word, Nacho could hear Fring bear his teeth. “You think I don’t know?” Gus kept approaching Nacho, driving him back ever so slowly. “Your eagerness did not go without notice.”

Nacho opened his mouth, but the next moment he realized that Lalo had probably forgotten to spray paint over all the security cameras in Fring’s house. Which meant…

“You think I don’t know about your… lack of restraint?”, Fring asked with cold revulsion.

Nacho swallowed heavily and took one last step backwards. The back of his legs touched his bed.

Fring knew. 

His voice had dropped so low that Nacho was sure only he could hear it. “Was it fun, your puerile little rebellion? Did you enjoy this excuse to take out your anger at me?”

The softness of the mattress relented dangerously against Nacho’s legs. Anger, yeah, that was it. It wasn’t panic whirling inside his head, or constricting his chest. He was angry. He took one step forward, right into Fring’s face, and almost whispered: “Do you think I’d voluntarily set a foot into your prissy ass house?” He lifted a hand to bore one finger into Fring’s chest. The metal of two guns reflected dim light as they were being lifted to point at Nacho, but he didn’t care. If there was no option of flight, he'd have to fight. He'd learned that from the lawyer. “And what do you think would have happened if I hadn’t started messing with Lalo? He would have burned the entire thing to the ground. I distracted him long enough for the cops to show up, and pretty effectively at that. If anything, you should thank me!” Nacho had hissed the last words. He backed off again, and dropped his arms to his sides. If Fring wanted to shoot him, he should just get it over with. Nacho wasn’t in the mood for games anymore.

But Fring and his men remained silent.

It was a terrible quiet, and despite his strong words, Nacho could feel his jaw ache from how tightly he was clenching his teeth. He almost missed the two extra men Fring had brought to his last visit to Nacho’s bedroom. Tyrus or Victor would never have been able to restrain Nacho if his father’s life was at stake. Knowing that, Fring had introduced Nacho to these tall and burly gentlemen who had held him in an iron grasp that he could have struggled against for all of eternity, their vice grip did not falter. Nacho wished they were here, wished he could throw himself at them and throw punches to their faces until they grabbed him so tightly he couldn’t move a single muscle.

The sound of a phone vibrating made Nacho almost flinch, that’s how tense he was. A small glowing screen illuminated the features of Tyrus, as always frozen in a constant state of mild disgust. “We got to go.”

Fring took a deep breath. He straightened the lapel of his dark blue suit and nodded. Before he turned to leave, he took one last, long look at Nacho and said: “If you need to vent your anger, I suggest you aim it at the appropriate target.”

The handle of the baseball bat feels cold and hard against Nacho’s palm. The wind whistles in the broken windows of the dilapidated industrial area buildings, until its frail song is drowned out by the sound of car windows and headlights being smashed to pieces.

Nacho brings down the bat on the hood of the van with all the force he can muster, drives deep dents into the fenders and sides of the vehicle and kicks in the taillights. The tires make a hissing noise as Nacho punctures them with a knife, their stale air gusting into Nacho’s face. He climbs on top of the van and beats the crap out of its roof until the body of the car gives in underneath his feet. Bits of red paint and thousands of tiny, cube-shaped pieces of glass rain down on the concrete floor and inside of the car. The windshield wipers protrude from their joints, black and twisted like the legs of a helpless bug flipped on its back.

Throwing open the back doors of the van, Nacho gets inside and continues to cut the seat covers to pieces. He remembers upholstering them, one of the first times he’s ever taken care of an entire car all by himself, under the watchful and proud eyes of his father. It had taken Nacho more than one attempt to get the job just right, but when he was done, Manuel had put an arm around his shoulders, pulled him into a half-hug and laughed. “Buen trabajo, mijo!”, he’d said, and Nacho’s chest had filled with an indescribable feeling of glee at the praise.

But now he there is no papá watching him, and no pride in his chest.

Nacho tears the seat covers into ribbons, sending stuffing flying everywhere. When he’s done, he gets the gasoline and spills it over the car dashboard, over plastic foot mats, and turns in a circle while dousing the back area of the van. After he gets out, he kneels by the side of the car, gets out his knife and stabs the gasoline tank underneath the vehicle until he can hear the soft gurgling of liquid spilling onto the floor. Nacho splashes some more gasoline over the battered outside of the van for good measure and spills down a trail leading away from the car, allowing him to light it up from a safe distance. He produces a book of matches from his back pocket, strikes one, and drops it onto the gasoline trail to his feet.

The fire races down the line, and for a moment it forms a flickering halo on the ground around the car before tearing into the car itself. Thick orange flames lap around the frame almost immediately, dart up into the quickly darkening sky. There’s a heavy, black smoke bulging out of the car. Nacho braces himself. A ground-shattering explosion rips through the front part of the van and makes him flinch. Despite the distance, Nacho can feel the detonation in his legs and lungs, and there’s a tingle running up his spine. He shudders.

Plumes of smoke waft upwards and get carried away by the wind, covering the first stars appearing in the sky, and Nacho watches, hands by his sides, as the fire eats the van from the inside and red paint turns into charred black.

Nacho tries not to think of Arturo’s lips and teeth against a semi transparent plastic bag, desperately working his lungs for air, gasping in vain and struggling against the zip ties holding his hands and feet on his back. He tries not to picture the dead body of Arturo next to him in the driver’s seat, face covered in pale, sunken skin. He tries, really tries not to picture that same dead body in the burning car, and himself next to it in the passenger’s seat. He promised himself he wouldn’t space out, not right now. 

There’s a hand on his shoulder. Why is there a hand on his shoulder? Bemused, Nacho looks up, right in Lalo’s face. How long has he been here? Nacho has no clue. He could have been watching Nacho take his entire car apart for all the attention Nacho’s been paying to his surroundings. Lalo’s mouth is moving, but Nacho can’t process the words. The light of the fire illuminates one half of Lalo’s face. It permeates the dark brown of his eyes and makes them flicker in a golden hue. Lalo looks just like that night when they broke into Fring’s house together. Well, almost. 

There’s a tiny red scratch over his bottom lip that is still not fully healed. There hasn’t been a single day for the past week that Nacho hasn’t caught himself staring at it. Maybe it would only be visible when Lalo smiles, but since he constantly grins like a Cheshire cat anyway, it barely makes any difference. They haven’t lost a single word about what happened in Fring’s bedroom. Whatever Lalo’s thinking about Nacho’s little slip-up, he doesn’t let it on through a single word or gesture. He’s been as friendly as always, maybe even more so. Like right at this moment, when he smiles at Nacho with such an intense fondness and warmth in his eyes that it makes Nacho’s hair stand on end.

Crap. He’s been staring at the split lip again.

“You said we were gonna meet back at El Michoacáno”, Nacho states, pretending like he didn’t space out completely while Lalo was talking to him.

Lalo regards him, and Nacho is absolutely sure that for a second, he pulls his bottom lip in to bite down on it. Lalo  _ has _ been watching him trash the van, hasn’t he.

“Change of plans”, Lalo declares. “You come home with me tonight.”

-

Part of the challenge of dealing with Lalo all day is constantly being exposed to some kind of auditive nuisance. Either there’s music, or there’s spatulas scraping over hot stove plates, or there’s singing, or there’s excessive talking. It’s like Lalo is a perfect storm of noise and mirth, two things that Nacho is not particularly fond of in a man.

So when Lalo switches on the stereo once they get to his bungalow, it doesn’t take Nacho more than one minute to grab the remote control and turn it back off. He’s standing in the dimly lit living room, which is separated from the kitchen only by a room divider, staring out the window into the pitch black night.

“May I take that as an objection to my music taste?”, Lalo asks and saunters over from the kitchen, throwing a long shadow into the living room. “Just when we got to the romantic part.” He steps close to Nacho, slides one arm around his waist, takes one of Nacho’s hands into his, and pulls him close. Nacho fears Lalo will twirl him through the room again, but instead, Lalo just lightly sways from side to side to a slow rhythm. He starts humming into Nacho’s ear, which is right by his lips, picking up the melody of the song that Nacho has just interrupted. In a low tone, he half-murmurs, half-sings the lyrics, and sure, it’s weird, and embarrassing. But Nacho also feels himself relax into the embrace, his eyelids fall shut and he takes a deep, slow breath of Lalo’s scent of spices and cologne. It’s mingled with the faint stench of gasoline still sticking to their clothes. Nacho can feel Lalo’s chest rise and fall against his, the vibration of his voice. Giving in to the inviting warmth, Nacho leans his head against Lalo’s jaw and allows himself to be guided along by the other man’s movement. Their bodies inch closer and closer together until they are flush against each other and Nacho can feel Lalo’s legs move against his own thighs.

When Nacho opens his tired eyes, he notices that they are level with Lalo’s mouth. He can see the bits of scab over the almost healed split lip, and the way it stretches when the corners of Lalo’s mouth curl into a smile.

“Have you ever thought about killing me?”, Lalo almost whispers.

Nacho knows he should be scared. But he is so tired of being afraid. From under half-lidded eyes, he looks up at Lalo, and it is enough to make Lalo swallow with barely concealed desire. An incredible warmth pools in Nacho’s stomach, and his crotch, too.

Nacho lets both his hands wander up Lalo’s chest, crumpling the fine fabric of Lalo’s floral patterned shirt, fingers brushing over shiny white buttons, until they are resting on Lalo’s shoulders. They feel strong and wiry under his palms. With a gentle squeeze, Nacho pushes Lalo backwards and makes him fall on the couch. Lalo bounces back up a little, and it reminds Nacho of the way he let himself plop down on Fring’s bed. Nacho climbs into his lap, pushes him further into the sofa with his body weight, and lets his hands rest loosely around Lalo’s neck. “I always do”, he answers, voice strained from how badly he needs this right now. “I’m thinking about killing you right now, just like this.”

There’s the trace of a wild glint in Lalo’s eyes again, delight, anticipation, eagerness all in the way his mouth drops open just the tiniest bit and his eyes widen as he looks up at Nacho like he’s having an apparition.

Nacho thought he prepared himself for what was going to happen. He’s steeled himself for whatever punishment Lalo would eventually deal out for that split lip. What he didn’t expect was that Lalo would come back for more.

Nacho can hear himself chuckle. Lalo Salamanca and his goddamn curve balls.

“You. Bedroom”, Nacho orders, snaps his fingers towards the corridor and gets up. “And lose the clothes, they reek.”

It’s almost comical how quickly Lalo is on his feet and makes for the bedroom. The grin is back on his face, and he looks so young and excited, like a boy who’s about to open his Christmas presents.

When Nacho follows him, unbuttoning his own shirt and letting it drop to the corridor floor, he finds Lalo already stripped down to nothing but his briefs. Lalo’s kneeling beside a cabinet and rummaging about in its drawers, finding different objects and throwing them onto the bed. Nacho steps closer and realizes that it’s lube, strings of ropes, a blindfold, a flogger... No gag though. Nacho bites back a sigh of disappointment.

All of the items look fairly new, their black surfaces without scratches and the ends of the ropes barely frayed. The thought crosses Nacho’s mind that Lalo has been planning this.

“You know how to use these?”, Lalo asks.

“A little”, Nacho says and picks up one of the jute ropes. “Had a girlfriend once who was into light bondage.”

“Did you bind her or did she bind you”, Lalo asks with a cheeky grin. He’s slowly walking around the bed until he stands right in front of Nacho and his fingers find their way underneath the hem of Nacho’s undershirt. “It’s fine, Nachito. Even stoic guys need to let off steam every once in a while. And from the looks of it, you seem to be in dire need of some venting. You’re allowed to loosen up, indulge, you know…?” Lalo gestures with one hand while the other brushes over Nacho’s abdomen, up to his navel, his abs, around his waist.

That’s all the permission Nacho needs.

He grabs Lalo’s hand by the wrist and twists his arm so suddenly it makes Lalo yelp and follow the movement to the side. Nacho forces him down onto his knees. It doesn’t even take much effort to straighten his features into a mask of cold apathy. 

Once he’s recovered from the initial surprise, Lalo is all condescending smiles and chuckles again. “Your little bondage girlfriend taught you that?”, he asks.

_ No, years of torturing men for your operation did _ , Nacho thinks and his grip around Lalo’s wrist tightens so much that it draws another pained groan from the other man. “Shut up”, Nacho says, his voice calm and chilly. 

The way Lalo’s eyes are wide with excitement, how he winces at Nacho’s grip, how strongly he reacts to Nacho’s comparatively low effort, it’s all telltale signs that he is not used to being treated like this, or being told what to do.

“Drop the nicknames, or I’ll make you regret it”, Nacho states, and doesn’t wait for Lalo to react before he gets down on one knee right in front of Lalo, still twisting his wrist, and looks him straight in the eye. “You know what happens now?” With his free hand, Nacho pushes his thumb into the creases forming around Lalo’s mouth and drags it over his cheek. “I’m gonna wipe that grin off your face.”

That doesn’t stop Lalo from grinning in the least. Quite the opposite, it makes him even more giddy. “You could always kiss it away”, he suggests.

Nacho is unimpressed. He’s always been good at resisting bargaining from his subjects. With a quick twist in the other direction, Nacho yanks Lalo upward, and before Lalo can find any footing, Nacho has already turned him around and shoved him head first into the bed.

“On your back, arms above your head”, Nacho commands and listens to Lalo shuffling around on the blankets while he himself gets out of his pants. He reaches for one of the black jute ropes and straddles Lalo’s hips with his legs. Lalo holds up his hands so expectantly, it’s almost cute.

There are numerous ways specifically made for safely tying a person’s wrists, complicated knots his ex taught him that Nacho couldn’t remember how to produce if his life depended on it. Highly effective for avoiding impediment of blood flow, but rather useless if what you’re trying to do is threaten a man with cutting out his tongue. As if all by themselves, Nacho’s hands tie Lalo’s wrists together in the way they’ve grown accustomed to - a quick, tight knot that can only be escaped by being cut out of it.

After he’s done tying him up, Nacho shoves Lalo’s hands above his head, and Lalo seems almost a bit disappointed when Nacho doesn’t linger above him. “What do I have to do to get a kiss?”, he asks, charming, but impatient.

“Not how it works”, Nacho replies curtly.

“And if I suck your dick, hm?” Lalo grins that spoiled little grin of his and eagerly wriggles underneath Nacho.

Nacho slaps him fast and hard, not bothering with holding back this time. A rush of excitement rolls through him and he clenches his thighs around Lalo’s body. As a threat, he lifts his hand again. “You want another split lip? I still got the backhand with the ring.”

There’s something fresh in Lalo’s eyes as he turns his head back to look up at Nacho, young and radiant, and Nacho finds himself staring with fascination at the red bloom spreading over the other man’s cheek as Lalo’s tongue flicks over the corner of his mouth where Nacho’s hand connected with his skin.

“Will you behave now?” Nacho has to will his voice to stay cold despite the overwhelming need to do something to Lalo he might regret later.

“You could teach me”, Lalo replies, slightly breathless, but still every bit as bratty.

“Wrong answer.” Again, Nacho strikes Lalo, and the smack makes him bare his teeth. He gets off Lalo’s hips and seizes them instead with both hands, forces Lalo onto his belly and gets behind him, grips him by the back of his neck like a thrashing animal. Nacho shoves his thigh against Lalo’s crotch from behind, drawing a muffled noise from Lalo, who’s lying with half of his face pressed into the mattress. His arms are stretched out over his head, and Nacho pauses for a moment to admire the view. Running both hands over Lalo’s back, shoulder blades, up his arms to his elbows and forearms, all the way up to the ropes, Nacho follows the flow of muscles and tendons, until his chest is pressed against Lalo’s back and his lips are next to Lalo’s ears.

“This looks so good on you”, Nacho murmurs and immediately regrets it.

Spurred by the praise, Lalo makes a purring sound and raises his butt. Nacho actually didn’t think he’d need the flogger, but suddenly it’s in his hand while the other tears down Lalo’s briefs, and the crack of leather straps against exposed skin echoes through the room.

“Mierda…!”, Lalo hisses, groans with each whip, and it makes Nacho clench his teeth. Usually, Nacho is very deliberate in how he inflicts pain. He knows which tool has what effect, whether it causes a sting, or a dull ache, a throbbing or a burning pain. He’s not familiar at all with a flogger though, and he feels like the crack of the leather straps is overemphasizing the hurt it’s causing. But it still feels good, unleashing it on Lalo’s rear end, watching the red streaks it paints on his skin, and how the muscles underneath it twitch with every hit. 

He’s probably getting carried away, if the way Lalo’s groans are turning into yelps are any indicator. But for the first time in what seems like forever, Nacho feels a calm settling over his mind, an emptiness that is different from his usual spacing out. He’s so close, so close to that peace, so close to scratching that itch-

“Dios, Ignacio”, Lalo gasps. “¡Qué malo eres!”

Nacho lets his hand roam into Lalo’s hair, makes a fist in it and yanks his head upwards. “Yeah? You don’t know half of it…!”, he snarls and lets the hilt of the flogger brush over Lalo’s cheek. “Be thankful I’m not using this on your face right now!”

“I feel like you are punishing me...!”, Lalo says, and it almost sounds like a whine. His struggling against the ropes has made them cut red lines into his wrists, lines that will be visible for at least a few days. Something new for Nacho to secretly stare at for the entire next week. The sight and thought are spellbinding, and it’s almost enough to drown out the part of Nacho’s brain that’s been under constant pressure for the last months, that’s been doing nothing but worry and fret. A dark and sticky mess is spreading in his mind, smothering everything underneath it, fear, restraint, leaving Nacho only with the need to let this out, let it all out on whoever deserves it most.

“Do you know why you’re here?”, Nacho asks in a whisper, still pulling Lalo’s head back by the hair.

The expression on Lalo’s face changes from a wince into a hopeful smile yet again. “Because you wanna fuck me?”

Nacho huffs. That man’s not even close to breaking. He throws the flogger to the side and brings down his flat hand on Lalo’s already abused, red-streaked ass. To his surprise, the reaction changes completely, and he has to stifle a satisfied groan at the sight of Lalo arching his spine and throwing his head back with a yelp. Nacho holds him down with one hand splayed right between his shoulder blades. The muscles work underneath his fingers, strain and spasm as Nacho hits him again, and a rush of power crushes in on him like a wave.

“Because I deserve it?” Lalo’s breathing heavily now. Out of all the people that have been subjected to Nacho’s treatment, he’s never met anyone less used to so much as an inevitable inconvenience. “Tell me how I can be good for you, Ignacio..!” It should have been a beg, and still it only registers with Nacho as Lalo attempting to bargain his way out of an uncomfortable situation. Nacho shoves Lalo’s head back into the mattress.

“This is only gonna end when you stop struggling and accept”, Nacho says, alternating the pace of his strikes to throw off Lalo’s expectations. With every hit, Lalo’s been getting quieter, he’s stopped throwing his head back, steadily turning his consciousness inward.  _ There we go _ , Nacho thinks, and he delves in, still bringing down blow after blow on Lalo’s ass, and he says: “The only reason you’re here is because every step you took lead you this way.”

It’s hard to make out because Lalo’s got his face turned away, and Nacho can’t make out his expression, but it feels like Lalo is attentive for once. Whether that’s a good or a bad thing, Nacho isn’t sure. Having the full attention of a Salamanca can be a terrifying place to be in. But that dark, sticky mess in his head is keeping Nacho from worrying about it. Lalo made him do this. He should be glad that Fring still has plans for him, or else the opportunity to strangle him to death might actually entice Nacho.

Nacho slaps Lalo’s ass one last time, his own palms burning with pain by now, but he ignores it. He lets his heated hand rest on Lalo’s even warmer skin and rubs small, almost affectionate circles into it. Bending over Lalo, he murmurs: “Who decides what happens to you now?”

“You”, is the surprisingly succinct answer, half muffled by Lalo’s own biceps that he’s pressing his mouth against.

There is something scary about having a man look up at you with certainty that you are going to be the one to decide his fate, Nacho muses as he pulls down his trunks and gets the lube to prepare Lalo. Scary, but also thrilling in a haunting way that used to keep Nacho up at night. It’s pure, unadulterated power, and Nacho has seen men growing addicted to it. He himself tried to protect himself from that feeling by putting on his mask, his defenses, stepping outside of his own head and let his body handle the matter all by itself. Ironically, that has mostly served to make him that much more effective.

But this is different. He’s completely present, the bedroom around him crystal clear, and he’s the one who decides to drag his hands over the entirety of Lalo’s back, pull him up on knees and elbows and bury his dick hilt-deep in Lalo’s ass. 

The relief of the warmth and pleasure hits Nacho so sudden, he bites into the soft skin on Lalo’s back to stifle the strained cry that nearly escaped him. Lalo almost flops back onto the mattress with a blissful moan, but Nacho holds him in place. The way Lalo spreads his legs under Nacho, how he arches his back perfectly, and his unrestrained moans begging Nacho for more with each thrust is absolutely maddening. It’s that bliss again, the bliss Nacho felt when he tasted blood on Lalo’s lips while they were kissing on Fring’s bed, and Nacho is chasing after it, faster and faster, until his relentless rhythm falls apart to the sound of the positively filthy noises Lalo is making, and the world around Nacho with it.

He plops down on the bed next to Lalo, their heavy breathing mingling and their bodies almost touching. Far too quickly, the bliss escapes Nacho. It’s like a hit that he’s chasing, and just like one it leaves him colder than he felt before.

“I’m gonna feel that”, Nacho hears Lalo groan next to him as he contently stretches out on the sheets.

Once he knows he’s not too wobbly on his legs, Nacho fetches his pants to get the knife from the pocket that he punctured the tires with earlier. Without a single further word, he cuts Lalo loose, revealing sore red marks around his wrists. The sight of them doesn’t make Nacho feel anything, and it’s so frustrating Nacho wants to scream. He’s taken it all out, hasn’t he? Wasn’t that the entire point? Then why does he still feel so agitated?

Suddenly there’s Lalo, and he’s on top of him. Nacho should be glad that all this seems to have left him in a good mood, even the humiliation of getting spanked by bare hand. “Will you let me return the favor?”, he asks, settling down on Nacho the exact same way Nacho straddled him before. He gets the ropes, guides Nacho’s arms over his head and ties them together, and Nacho lets it all happen without any real interest of partaking.

The itch is still there, and so is the anger. They course through his veins unaltered, and not even the thought of setting Fring’s entire house on fire can change that.  _ Aim it at the appropriate target _ , Fring had said, but honestly, Nacho is running out of options.

Lalo’s hands are roaming Nacho’s chest, they push his shirt upwards, over his head and up his arms until it forms a knot of fabric around his tied wrists. Nacho gets hold of them and guides them down to his neck. “If you wanna be good for me, do that”, he says, pressing the hands against his throat. The unreadable expression creeping over Lalo’s face should unsettle Nacho, and he knows that, but when Lalo takes another piece of rope to tie Nacho’s hands to the bedpost, all Nacho can think about is how nice it feels to helplessly struggle against the ties, to feel them cut into his skin.

Then Lalo closes his hands around Nacho’s neck again, just impeding his breathing and the blood flow enough to make Nacho feel the slightest bit dizzy. The man knows his stuff, that much is for sure. At least it suffices to get Nacho hard again, even though his head is not in it at all. Lalo lowers himself down on Nacho’s dick, and somewhere in Nacho’s brain it does register that it’s a view to behold, and he hears himself gasp through Lalo’s fingers, but god fucking dammit, is he spacing out again…?

The creases around Lalo’s mouth deepen for a split second, his eyes grow narrow, and somehow Nacho suddenly becomes keenly aware that he is utterly fucked. Lalo’s fingers tighten around his throat, painfully crushing his larynx together and cutting off his blood supply. There’s an explosion of fear, pain and arousal erupting in Nacho’s entire body, nerves firing on all ends as he yanks his arms against his restraints and Lalo continues riding him mercilessly.

_ That’s it, _ Nacho thinks, and not a single sound escapes his throat as he opens his mouth in vain.  _ He’s finally come to end it. _

“This is only gonna end when you stop struggling and accept”, Lalo repeats his own words back at him, his voice so soft and velvety, it sends an ice cold shiver down Nacho’s spine. “The only reason you’re here is because every step you took lead you this way.”

And the truth of it hits Nacho even through the panic. Now that he’s here, he’s got nowhere to go. But there used to be a time when he had a choice. Papá warned him, over and over, and yet every single time, Nacho has taken the wrong turn. When Hector entered the picture, it probably had already been to late. But Tuco, why did he have to get rid of Tuco? Why did he think he was smarter than everybody else?

He wouldn’t even have to deal with Lalo, or the other Salamancas, or Fring. His father would never have been put into harm's way, Domingo didn’t need to get his trust betrayed by his best friend, Arturo didn’t have to die. None of it would have happened if Nacho had just followed his father’s advice, if Nacho had never gone back to the Salamancas in the first place.

It’s not Fring that is to blame, or even Lalo.

All this is his own doing.

And with that thought, Nacho falls deep into the dark, sticky mess inside his head.

Nacho has no idea how long he’s passed out. When he comes back to, his eyes ache, his temples are pulsating with pain, and his throat is sore. His breath comes out raspy, and he can’t bring himself to open his eyes immediately. Something shifts underneath Nacho. His head is lying in someone’s lap. A strange, cozy warmth envelops him, and for a second he wonders whether he’s still asleep, dreaming about papá, and how he used to comfort him after a nightmare when he was very young. The touch of fingers ghosts over Nacho’s head, and a comforting voice speaks to him, indistinguishable through the haze of sleep at first, then it becomes clearer.

“There you go, Ignacio”, the voice murmurs in Spanish. “You did so good for me.”

A shiver runs through Nacho’s body, and he wants to struggle against the hand petting his head, against the words, but he’s too weak. So he just stays very still, and listens.

“Such a good boy”, says the other man. It doesn’t sound like he understands the scope of what he’s saying, a soft but slightly cheeky smile clearly audible in his words. It really sounds like he’s talking to a child now as he pets Nacho’s head, lets his fingers brush over Nacho’s cheek and his naked shoulders in a gesture so full of affection and appreciation it makes Nacho want to cry. Nacho’s weak hands cling to the blanket underneath him as if his life depends on it, unable to fight back against it all, and just allows it to happen. “I’m so proud of you, Ignacio”, the voice says, and Nacho’s chest fills with something so big it feels like it has to burst any second now, and he’s completely defenseless against it. It’s not the euphoria he felt when trashing Fring’s house, or the glee he felt at his father’s praise. It’s something different, and it fills him up all the way, something that’s been waiting to break free for years. It seeps into every inch, every nook, every cranny of his mind and body, until there is nothing else left, no sticky dark mess, not even anger. 

His hands wander upwards, and when his fingers brush his own cheeks, they come away wet. Nacho holds on to the legs his head is resting on, buries his face in the warmth of the lap, and breathes in the scent of spices and cologne mingled with the faint smell of gasoline.

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to finish this before tonight's episode, so here is the second and last part, hooray!
> 
> I swear when I planned this fic, I wanted it to be a pwp. But the further I progressed, the more I realized that this is actually about getting Nacho to a point where has to let go, fall apart and accept his fate, if only for a short moment, and what it takes to get him there.
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, I'd be happy to hear your thoughts!


End file.
